


Out for Repairs

by DarthSuki



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: DFAB reader, Dirty Talk, F/M, Fingerfucking, Mild Exibitionism, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 15:23:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17409377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthSuki/pseuds/DarthSuki
Summary: There is normally a camera situated in the recording booth. It's certainly nothing unusual--almost every office, building and room has something like it, so StrexCorp can keep an eye on its employees. It just so happens that the camera in the recording booth is broken today, out for repairs and leaving no visual monitoring device in the room.Kevin has an idea for how the two of you can use that temporary privacy.Companion fic to'Return the Favor'





	Out for Repairs

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sorta-kinda companion to the work ['Return the Favor'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17501315) though both of these are just little smut fics--you don't have to read one to understand the other!

When you get a notification on your phone, you’re not quite sure what to make of it. You don’t normally get a lot of texts in the afternoon--you don’t really get a lot of  _anything_  in the afternoon, so it surprises you a little to feel the device buzzing softly against your hip when it goes off. You of course pull it out and take a look and, with a blink, you find that it’s a text from Kevin.

> _[2:43 p.m.] Kevin: Come to the recording booth._

You feel a brow raise in curiosity, but you push it past in favor of having no solid expectations--it’s not exactly your place to question a lot of things; if you tried to wrap your mind solidly around everything that happened and every person’s intentions in Desert Bluffs, you’d go absolutely insane. So you tap a quick response to him, letting him know you’d be there in a couple minutes; the printer was still whirring out the last couple pages of the script for after the weather announcements.

> _[2:44 p.m.] Kevin: No. Come here now._

There is an authority even in the short, curt response. It doesn’t frighten you any--it’s mostly annoying, since there’s a chance that the script might be gone, completely disappeared from existence by the time you’d get back to it on the printer. 

Nevertheless, you do as you’re asked. It doesn’t take very long to get to the radio section--it’s only one floor up from the print room--and when you step into the editing station that then leads into the recording booth you find Kevin...

Recording? The ‘on air’ sign is lit up quite brightly, a gentle orange-red glow in the otherwise dimmed room. On the other side of the glass that separates the booth from the rest of the room, Kevin sits, talking into his microphone.

But as if predicting your entry he turns, eyes locked on you, and smiles even brighter--

-and there is a hunger to that smile. Agan, it doesn’t frighten you any, you’ve long since moved past the stage where Kevin legitimately  _terrifies you_  in most of his behaviors--he’s learned how to keep that from happening for the most part, but the expression still warrants a little thread of nervousness.

You knit your brows together, glancing towards the sign.

When you look back, he’s still talking into the mic, eyes still looking towards you and his hand mildly outstretched, crooking a finger in a gesture that read quite plainly ‘come here’.

Well, since permission superseded the rule, you carefully open the recording booth door and sidle yourself in, all the while careful so that you don’t make any noises. What in the world could Kevin want from you while he’s actively broadcasting, especially when the next script isn’t even done?

You step closer, closer still, close enough that you’re standing beside him with knitted brows and an unfiltered look of confusion on your face.

For a moment, Kevin’s smile opens, revealing sharp teeth. He points towards one of the upper corners of the room and, as your eyes follow, you take note that the camera that normally observes the recording booth is not there. The stand is there, but the camera itself? Gone, with only a red sticker to showcase that it had ever been there in the first place. Bold, sharpie-thick black lettering reads ‘IN REPAIR’.

You blink and, after a moment (though with plenty of questions still swimming around your head) you turn back to your boss and romantic partner, hoping he would offer some form of explanation.

Kevin doesn’t drop his smile. He merely gestures again, presses his hand to your hip, then to your back and, eventually, you find yourself half-bent over the recording desk. He’s still talking into the mic, broadcast without a single revealing sound or errant syllable to show that he is doing anything other than sitting there and talking like he does each and every day.

You can feel the edge gently pressing against the front of your hips. Maybe Kevin wants something you can reach for?

That thought quickly goes out the window as his other hand begins to press at your body, leaning you forward even more, to the point where your torso is pressed nearly flushed to the surface of his desk, skirt pulled up just a little too high over the curve of your ass; you almost feel a little embarrassed by the thought that someone could probably glance through the glass of the editing room and see your underwear and-

Oh.

Your heart nearly stops as you feel it. His fingers. His hand. Kevin has situated himself carefully, propping his chin in the palm of one hand and the other lingering on you, palm pressed against your hip. And then it shifts slowly, he dragging his hand over your hip, across the curve of your ass and playing down the length of your skirt until his fingers slip beneath the fabric and you feel his warm touch against your bare skin.

And still in this moment, Kevin continues to speak. His rhythm unbroken and his face forward, not even looking at you as his hand continues to move over the top of your legs. 

Fingertips playing, caressing, slowly over the bottom of your ass until you could feel him pressing against--

“Kevin-!”

The name leaves your lips without filter, but you’re quick enough to slap your palms over your mouth, muffling the sound away. 

He presses again, dragging the tip of his index and middle finger up and down across your cunt. Your panties feel so thin in the moment, barely hiding the pressure as Kevin’s fingers simply play against you, teasing, gentle--

And all of a sudden the realization comes to you. The broken camera in the corner, the lack of observation; that very realization fuels a sudden heat between your legs, makes you feel a kindling of hunger just as fingers curl over the crotch of your panties and roughly pull it aside, revealing your heat to cold air. A shiver works down your spine and, although you can simply leave the room should you want, you find that you  _want_  this.

Oh, how you want this.

A moment passes without a shift of Kevin’s hand--you’re a little worried in that moment, as if you’ve done something wrong--but then he suddenly reaches up and curls his hand around the hem of your underwear and begins tugging them down, down over your ass and down your legs in one rough, quick motion, leaving only your skirt to barely cover yourself up from anyone who would care to look through the glass of the editing room.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, lungs burn for air--but you keep your hands clamped across the lips that otherwise threaten to break the silence, the facade that Kevin is doing nothing more than broadcasting the news.

“Watch out, Desert Bluffs--there’s been an accident on the corner of Sylph and Main street,” Kevin says into the mic, voice fluid and casual even as his fingers caress up your inner thigh. “It’s advised to stay clear of the area while emergency response members locate the drivers--as well as the cars themselves!”

The heat is almost unbearable at the bottom of your stomach. If it wasn’t for the desk, you feel as though your shaking legs might give out on you already--there’s just something so primal about the moment, so casual and careless in the way that Kevin just continues to speak, to use you, play with you like a toy.

It doesn’t take more than a few moments before you feel the caress of his fingertips drag back up your sensitive skin and reach the center of your desire once more. The fingertips tease along the edges of your lower lips and then carefully slip between, slicking themselves up in the wet, sticky arousal that you’re almost ashamed to know is only made worse by the moment itself.

“If you don’t mind now, listeners, a bit of a PSA given by your very own Desert Bluffs radio host,” Kevin purrs, finally edging his fingers towards your entrance. “Let’s talk about hobbies. I know, I know, we’re all such wonderful workers that most of us don’t have time for such silly, unproductive things.”

The tip of his index finger presses inside you, just a little, up to the first knuckle.

“--but if you’re able to find something that can keep you busy outside of all of your busy work schedules, then it’s worth it! Take myself for example-”

He presses the digit in a little deeper. It’s not enough, not nearly enough and your legs widen their stance almost instinctively to encourage him onward.

“-I personally have taken to a couple things, like coin collecting and a little bit of arts and crafts. You can say that I’m very  _good with my hands_  so it was only natural I’d enjoy them.”

His eyes are on you, hard and firm and controlling in more ways than a mere look should do. You can feel the tension in the air, the power in his mere touch as he slips his finger even deeper inside of you. It’s just enough to feel but not nearly enough to enjoy--you want  _more_. Little whimpers and moans are muffled behind your palms, but Kevin can still hear them.

Kevin  _loves_  them.

You feel him slip a second finger in beside the first, gently stretching you open when they thrust inside your cunt. You’re already dripping wet, aroused beyond measure, so the intrusion is nothing but a carnal satisfaction humming in the back of your mind. With how his wrist is orientated, Kevin’s touch is pressing down towards the internal side of your pubic bone, rubbing those rough, calloused fingers against your inner channel.

You’re not sure how long it’s like that--Kevin all but fingerfucking you as he speaks casually into the microphone, jumping from one update to the next. He changes his pace every now and again, fast to slow and back again, never quite letting you get too close to that beautiful crest of orgasm.

He’s worked you to the point where you can feel wetness dripping down your inner thighs. It’s embarrassing and shameful and oh-so hot, especially when he drops his tone on the occasional word, the meaning doubled and dirty and leaving you almost pressing your hips back into his hand, wanting  _more_  but being unable to beg for it.

But you can feel Kevin watching. You can feel his eyes on your face, your body, your cunt. You can almost feel him glancing lovingly at the place where his fingers thrust inside you, the way your body wraps around his digits and spills for him. There’s an appreciation in his gaze, deep and primal and  _hungry_ , but still he keeps to the filthy action as nothing but a casual tic, as if he’s doing something just to pass the time, to keep his hand busy.

Somewhere in the thrusting you start to feel his thumb press against you as well, following the curve of your body so that the very top of the digit brushes against your clit. It’s nothing substantial of a sensation, barely a ghost of a touch, but there’s something about it that sends your nerves into overdrive. 

Your legs are shaking visibly by this point, having been the victim of Kevin’s careful ministrations for...ten minutes? Twenty? Time is beyond you at this point, especially since the clock is on the other side of the room, above the glass window connecting to the editing area. You can barely keep a handle on your thoughts when-

Your phone buzzes. It’s luckily still in your hands--or at least, it’s beneath your chin, having dropped it when you had focused instead on covering up the noises leaking from between bitten lips.

The absurdity of it doesn’t go by you when you scramble to pick it up and glance at the screen, catching a glimpse of a text that, if anything, makes the moment so much more  _filthy_.

> _[3:17 p.m.] Kevin: If you can keep from cumming until the weather, I’ll fuck you over the desk_ 😉

You can’t really find the focus to reply. He probably doesn’t expect you to reply. All you can do is press your forehead to the cool surface of the wooden desk and let him fingerfuck you, let him spread you open as a third digit works in between the other two and-

God. Gods above does it feel good. It makes you want to sob with need, to bite your lip and angle your hip so that he could get ever closer to that one spot inside you that you craved for Kevin to rub against, to scratch that primal itch within your belly.

But the prospect of having a cock instead, thick and hard and hot, is certainly something to keep you focused. The mere thought of it--Kevin pinning your body down against the surface of his recording desk, hands on your hips and voice in your ear as he slides himself inside you and fucks you hard and fast and  _rough_ \--it’s enough that another hard sob threatens to slip from your mouth.

Your hands sweep, dropping your phone and clamping back over your mouth-

Just as your thoughts tune back into what Kevin is saying over the broadcast.

“We’ve got quite a lot of stories today, listeners!” His voice is so cheery, so bright, so casual. “I think that it’s going to take some time to get through them all. For those of you who are tuning in specifically for the  _weather_ , I suggest checking in a little later-”

The pace of his thrusting fingers pick up, just a little bit, curling around and just barely pressing against a sensitive bundle of nerves within you.

“-because it’s going to be a _long while_ before we get to it. 

 _I_ _hope you don’t mind_.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a request made on my WTNV writing blog. If you would like to submit a request or check out my other related work, [go check it out here!](https://wtnvwritings.tumblr.com/)


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